


(we fit together like) two pieces of a broken heart

by itslightningbugs



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU?, Betty Cooper Loves Jughead Jones, Canon Enough, Childhood Friends, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Jughead Jones Loves Betty Cooper, Plot What Plot, a bit of smut, a happy mess, betty and jug meet in third grade, idek, ie first time smut, in which the author tests her ability to write in English, mostly confused feelings, some stuff is canon some is not, someone is smitten, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 09:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itslightningbugs/pseuds/itslightningbugs
Summary: In some other godforsaken universe, they could have been roommates in New York or snowed in a damn cabin with only one bed to witness everything they'd have to say to each other. Maybe they would have met in a coffee shop on a rainy day and debate for hours on about their shitty jobs or even better, be co-workers who savagely make out during breaks on a regular basis. Maybe they could have been fake dating or trapped under the mistletoe, so he would’ve had a nice pretext to put his lips on hers.But his reality was fucked up, and he had to remind himself over and over again not to drown in her like the forlorn castaway he was.





	(we fit together like) two pieces of a broken heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hi hello!
> 
> Long story short.
> 
> It’s been nearly two years since I dove head first into this fandom and started to binge read an unhealthy amount of works that had me collapsing on the floor for sheer admiration. You guys here are INCREDIBLE. 
> 
> Two years and I never created an ao3 account. Never wrote anything bughead related. Basically I was a quiet supportive ghost. But ghost me is done. 
> 
> This is a biggg move for me. 
> 
> This is my first contribution to the bughead fandom and it's been a real roller coaster to write, mostly because English isn’t my first language. 
> 
> Yup, I’m a smol frenchie who spent years writing fics and role playing in French so please excuse my limited vocabulary and my (potential) mistakes. I absolutely wanted to try so here I am. 
> 
> This is the first thing I’ve ever written entirely in English + don’t have a beta so I’m very self-conscious and I NEED FEED BACK. I meant to try my hands on something short and ended up with this 20K words monster instead. Nervous chuckle. 
> 
> About said monster;
> 
> Title’s from Two Pieces by Demi Lovato. Strong bh vibes.
> 
> Check the tags - nothing alarming. There’s an obscene amount of songs refs and some sh crumbs for those who care. There’s a McFlurry ref even though there isn’t a single McDonald’s in Riverdale. A kitchen counter is involved. The Serpents are not.
> 
> This is entirely set on Jug’s confused POV. 
> 
> If you give it a go, it would mean the whole world to me. 
> 
> Now I’m leaving this massive mess here and goes into hiding.

When he was a kid, he was taught that home is his house. Home is where he’s going after school, where his family is and where he falls asleep most of the nights. He learned to do his homework… well, _at home_. One day, during some sort of a group activity, he listened as his classmates were talking about their homes – they all offered joyful anecdotes and described their bedrooms or their pets or their parents or their siblings.

When it was his turn, he found himself speechless. What kind of story was he supposed to tell?

_Home is where mom and dad are yelling at each other._ _Home is where my baby little sister yells too, mostly because mom and dad are yelling already. Home is where I can’t sleep at all. Home is a cursed trailer and I don’t want to go home._

That didn’t sound right. He wondered back then – if home really was supposed to be an enjoyable place, this had to be something else.

Growing up, he developed a keen interest for the words and their meaning. That’s when he discovered that one word can be interpreted in different ways. He became familiar with poetry and its lot of clichés, including the famous “ _home is where your heart is_ ”. Yeah, right. That implies that home can actually be something other than a house. He heard that enough to internalize it: home hasn’t necessarily four walls and a roof – it can be _someone_.

_Sure, why not_ , he admitted. That would always be better than a shitty trailer at Sunnyside.

But the same question seemed to pop up in his head every time he came to think about “ _home is where your heart is_ ”: what happens to your heart when you lost your home? Because no one seemed to care about the fact that you could actually _lose_ it somehow. As if life was a circle, or a fucking infinity symbol. With a beginning but no end.

The truth is – and he knew that – nothing lasts forever.

People always tend to think that even if they know something’s going to happen sooner or later, they’ve got plenty of time to get ready for it. Everything is fine, until it isn’t. It’s all fun and games, until you come to terms with the fact that there’s _never_ enough time.

One day you feel warm and safe and shielded from the darkness, the day after you’re threatened to become homeless.

 

…

 

Jughead Jones found his home in an angel named Betty Cooper.

 

…

 

He remembers the day he met her. He was eight and he was lonely, sitting in the back of the classroom, trying to find a way to entertain himself. At the moment, it was drawing little crowns on the corner of his desk – with a pencil, so he could erase them later.

Jughead was born an observer. He’s never been one to talk too much, preferring to get to know people by studying them and the way they act. Most of the time, it was enough to paint a picture of their personality and come to the conclusion that he didn’t want to know more of them.

(That surely explains why he was a lonely kid.)

He didn’t notice her when she first entered the room, too caught up in his own private bubble. It’s only when he heard her voice, bright and perky, that his gaze landed on her. She was at the other end of the room, in front of the chalkboard, head tilting upward to look at the teacher. _Pretty_ was his first thought - he stopped drawing crowns to study her instead. She was all flowers and rays of sunshine, light pink skirt and golden ponytail. Standing perfectly straight, hands gripped on her lilac backpack. And she was smiling. A lot. Jughead was willing to bet that it was the typical kind of girl to be friends with everyone. Not him, though – he didn’t see why she would want to be friends with someone like _him_ , it didn’t really fit the aesthetic. Boy, does she seemed to be the total opposite of him.

He let his eyes wander over her one last time for good measure, then went back to drawing crowns.

A few seconds later, he heard footsteps coming in his direction. He knew it was her – even the way she walked sounded _happy_. He remained unbothered though, until her voice echoed again, this time only three feet away from him.

“Hi! I’m Betty. What’s your name?”

_Betty. Pretty Betty._ Jughead was intrigued. Did he look like he wanted to talk? Why didn’t she go see the other girls from the class? Nevermind. He didn’t even bother to look up at her, and shrugged (what kind of eight-year-old just shrugs when asked what their name is?).

_(It doesn’t matter. You’ll not remember me tomorrow.)_

Eventually, he spoke. “I’m Jughead.”

Her answer came instantly. “Jughead? Your name is funny. Can I sit next to you?”

Funny, she said. He was used to strange – needless to say – but funny? That was new. That didn’t sound rude coming from her. When he finally looked up, he was rewarded by a (cute) smile. He nodded, almost shyly. “Yeah, sure.”

She sat at the desk next to him and he didn’t say anything more, waiting for the class to begin. From the corner of his eye, he saw her take a notebook and a pen – a pink pen with glitters on it, obviously – out from her bag. She started to scribble something he couldn’t quite see well, and since he didn’t seem to be able to mind his own business, he raised his head in an attempt to get a better view on her artistic project. He frowned, trying to follow the movements of her wrist. One loop, two loops.

“Is it an eight, like your age? You’re eight too?”

She stopped moving for a second, almost startled that someone seemed interested in what she was doing. But, for some odd reason, he was. Shaking her head, she let out a small chuckle. “Yes, I’m eight but this is the infinity symbol. See,” she turned the notebook towards him. “You can drag your pen along both loops without ever stopping.” She did as she said, and she met his gaze. “It means forever.”

Jughead’s eyes went from Betty to the _forever symbol_ , then back to her. Something had shifted in the way she was now staring at him, and he realized with a bit of surprise that she was doing exactly what he was doing earlier: studying him. Maybe she was an observer, too. Jughead wondered what she could think of him. _Does it matter anyway?_ Mentally rolling his eyes, he decided to focus his attention elsewhere, but then—

“Do you want to be friends forever, Juggie?”

_Woah. Juggie. Friends. Forever._ The least he could say, he was taken aback by the offer. What was that? A promise? _If this is a promise like those from mom and dad, then I can’t count on it_. What does that even mean? _Do you wanna be lonely with me?_ He wanted to decline, tell her she’d definitely find better than him in a few days – but she was still smiling. That genuine, shimmering smile. And her eyes, and her tiny dimples, and… _fine_.

Eight years old and whipped.

“Yeah, that would be great, Betty.”

They both grinned at each other, and with a sudden impulse, Jughead drew a little crown on the corner of Betty’s desk.

 

…

 

As it turned out, Betty Cooper became one of his two best friends.

Archie Andrews snuck into Jughead’s life shortly after what he now would call _the infinity promise_. Weeks passed, years flashed, and the three of them stuck together like baby birds in the same nest. Jughead is glad they both found him. Because no matter how many times he claimed to be a loner or a weirdo or whatever the fuck he thought he was, he couldn’t override the undeniable need of having friends to rely on.

When he wanted to take a break from the fights and the lies and all the crap that was happening at the trailer (and not at home – this wasn’t _home_ ), they were always there to clear his mind, even if it was only temporary. That’s what friends do.

He had his _bro_ , and he had _her_. He didn’t need anything else.

(Maybe he did. But whatever.)

Jughead grew up knowing that Betty had kind of a crush on Archie. He was an observer, after all. Though he wasn’t sure why he would notice things like this – like the way she rearranged her hair as soon as he entered the room, or the way she laughed at his jokes even when they were not funny at all. Hell, in sixth grade she even asked him to help her pick the dress Archie might like the most. And he helped her, obviously, because he’s a good friend. And because it was her.

Jughead cherished his friendship with Archie, really. He enjoyed spending hours in his bedroom playing video games and talking about man stuff while his amazing dad was downstairs baking amazing cookies. But sometimes, he had to restrain himself from hitting him in the face with a frying pan. Because Archie was oblivious. As blind as a fucking mole.

Jughead witnessed all this, he watched her watch him for months, if not years – seriously. Didn’t he have functional eyes? Couldn’t Archie see what he could see? Didn’t he realize that she was brilliant, funny, profoundly kind and insanely beautiful? Jughead would’ve given all his favourite books for her to look at him the way she looked at their friend. He would’ve even sacrificed the last piece of cake if in exchange it meant that she was dressing up only in order to please him. Archie was dumb.

Betty deserved to be loved.

(And that was probably the one and only thing Jughead wouldn’t do for her. Love was a weird concept for him. He couldn’t give her _love_ in the _holding hands and kissing and commitment_ kind of way, because this love’s ephemeral and leads to tears and people getting hurt and broken families.

He was front row for this movie.

So he kept his sermons to himself, because he didn’t want to hurt her.

Therefore, love was off the dashboard.)

(Archie was dumb nevertheless.)

By combining the whole friendship triangle theory – the one saying that it always ends up with two getting closer and the third one left behind – and the fact that Betty was pining for Archie, it wouldn’t have been a surprise if Jughead had felt a little bit sidelined. 

But it never was the case. If anything, it’s him and Betty who bonded over some things Archie couldn’t understand even if he tried. There was no crush nor love, just a mutual understanding that was beyond a simple promise of forever.

 

His first impression on Betty was partially correct – she was indeed friends with almost everyone, she smiled all the time, and she was just genuinely _good_. But Jughead was wrong on one point: she wasn’t the opposite of him. Not at all. In fact, he discovered during the time they spent together that they had a lot more in common than he initially thought. She read when she wanted to escape, she loved her sister, she thought PE class was useless, and her house wasn’t her home.

Between them, there was a quiet discussion about what life might be like if they were born in another family. She said she loved her parents, but he saw the way she looked at Fred Andrews when they all were at Archie’s – just like he did. He knew what she was thinking: it must be great to be understood.

Jughead was tired of people trying to decipher him on a daily basis. He had enough of people whispering about him and the fact that he only had one pair of shoes. They kept knocking on wood, hoping there’s a real boy inside. He was tired of his father constantly judging his own son. As if there was a flaw in his code (maybe there was). He just wanted to live his life in peace like a normal kid. He wanted to be understood.

And Betty… Betty. _She_ noticed every time he felt bad, and she always found a way to cheer him up. Jughead was aware, deep down, that he had to leave some distance between them – but it’s not like he had a choice in the matter. He let her in, because he trusted her and it just felt _good_ to have her by his side.

They found each other, balancing on a thin line between _I like that you’re broken like me, I can be broken_ _with you_ and _don’t try to fix me, I’m not broken_. They didn’t need words. She understood him, and he understood her in a way that Archie or anyone else couldn’t. They needed each other, it was as simple as one two three. He kept secrets that she didn’t even tell him, and she listened to him every time he wanted to curse the day he was born.

But above all, she let him know like no one else that it was okay to be himself.

(He didn’t need to give her love. No, because he was going to give her _forever_.)

 

…

 

She was there at twelve, when he’s been locked up in the locker room (the irony) by some morons who thought it was entertaining to keep him from going home after school _(didn’t they know?)_. It was Betty who found him, because she was actually _looking for him_. When she figured out what happened, she was _angry_. He thought she was going to dismantle the door and throw it away.

“I’m going to find these _assholes_ , Juggie. I’m going to find them and I’m going to kill them!” she hissed. She was pacing in the hallway, trying to contain her rage, while he was telling her that he was okay.

“They’re not worth your time, Betts, let it go,” he assured her. She let out an almost frustrated sigh, and beckoned him to follow her.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

_Gladly_ , Jughead thought. _I’ll follow you anywhere_.

 

She was there at thirteen, when his mom left. He was supposed to come over to Archie’s with her that night, and since he didn’t show up, she came to Sunnyside. She found him outside, sitting in the mud against the trailer, his head buried in his knees to cover up the fact that he was crying. She’d never seen him cry before.

He was going to tell her to go away, that she shouldn’t be there when it’s dark outside, that he wanted to be left alone anyway – but that was a lie. He was vulnerable and ashamed and he _needed_ her, so he let her in once again.

She cautiously knelt before him, stroking his arm to make him look at her and he did, taking in her angelic face and her eyes begging him to tell her _why_. They’d made a bet not long ago – and he’d told her that his family would break before hers. So Jughead knew she’d understand when he managed to say through his tears,

“I win”.

_I’m losing everything._

He looked away because he didn’t want to see pity in her eyes. He didn’t want her compassion. He didn’t know what he wanted at all, what he needed, what he craved until she suddenly wrapped her arms all around him, her head colliding against his in the process, and then he cried again. And again. And again.

“She just left, Betty. They say they love each other but they can’t figure shit out and she _left_ , she’s gone because love sucks.”

Her soft voice reverberates through his shaking body when she whispered, “I know. I know.”

He shook his head. “She left and she took Jellybean with her. She took her, and not me. Guess I’m not worth the fight. I’ll end up just like my dad and she knows that, she knows— “

She cut him off, tightening her grip around him, holding him tighter than he’s ever been hold. “No, Juggie. Our crazy families will _never_ define who we are. We’re not like our parents. We’ll do better. You’ll do better.”

_We’ll do better._

(Jughead smashed those words in black ink under his eyelids, so he could read them every time he’d drift off to sleep.)

That night, Betty told him over and over again that it wasn’t his fault. They were only lost children trying to find a way back home. He believed her. Together, it’ll be alright. 

_It’s all about us, and that’s a thing that they can’t touch._

 

 

She was there at sixteen, when he’s been kicked out of the trailer and he thought his nose was broken after the punch his dad gave him. She took care of him, trying to convince him to come over at her house for the night – in some alternative universe, Jughead would’ve been thrilled. In a reality where Alice Cooper wouldn’t have asked ten thousand questions finding out that her daughter stayed from dusk till dawn in the same room as the unfortunate son of FP Jones, he would’ve done it. But in _this_ reality, he just didn’t want Betty to be more involved in his mess than she already was.

He told her he was going to spend the rest of the night at Riverdale High. She decided to stay with him. Of course she chose to stay up all night, in a goddamn closet, because she didn’t want him to be alone. Seriously though, what did he do to deserve her?

Besides, it’s not like she didn’t have to deal with her own demons.

Just like it was fairly safe to assume she noticed bruises on Jughead’s face before, he noticed the faint crescent moon shaped scars on Betty’s palms. They rarely (never) talked about that. They both silently agreed that it wasn’t necessary.

(But there was that day when she saw that he’d seen. She’d shrugged and simply muttered, “Sometimes it’s good to feel something. Anything.”)

Jughead couldn’t help it. Whenever his gaze accidentally fell on the apparent marks of her anxiety, he wanted to take up deadly weapons and go to war against the whole fucking world.

She didn’t deserve to feel that way.

Sometimes, he truly felt all but miserable for not being able to repay her for the infallible support she gave him. He wanted to help her get through this crazy life just like she did for him, and he tried, but guessed it wasn’t enough because she was still _hurting herself_. They said if someone makes you happy, make them happier.

_I want you to be happier. How am I supposed to do that?_

On some days he would’ve wanted to hold her hand and never let go. He wanted her to know how important she’s become in the story of his sorry existence, and that he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her. He wanted her to be safe. He wanted to hold her tight like she did the night his family shattered into tiny pieces. He wanted her to talk to him about _everything_. He wanted her to be happy. Happy, happy, happy. He wanted to kiss her. So bad. He was craving for more, while keeping her safely away.

(He wanted to love her.

But he promised he wouldn’t hurt her.)

There’s always a strange line between what we want and what we need to do.

(Feelings are a trap.)

He only wished that one day, he’d find a proper way to say _thank you_.

_Thank you for making me feel like I belong._

_Thank you for being my home._

…

 

 

He remembers the day something shifted.

It was the very same day Archie finally came to his senses, which happened junior year, right in the middle of nowhere. Well, technically it was at the library, but still. Jughead was busy trying to find that damn book Kevin told him about (he had to read it to tell him it was bad), when the redhead popped up behind him with quite a disturbing look on his face. Jughead knew, from experience, that he was definitely going to say something as disturbing so he just waited by continuing to rummage through the bookshelves.

“Hey, man. I think I’m gonna ask Betty out.”

_Huh?_

A book fell on his head. He winced. “Why?”

That was the one and only syllable that came out of his mouth. _Why? Have you just woken up from a coma? Are you bored? Is this a joke? What the fuck._

Archie scratched the back of his neck, taking a step closer while Jughead crouched down to pick up the fallen book, trying to hide his bewildered expression. “She doesn’t seem to be doing well right now,” the redhead admitted, and he heard concern in his tone. “Thought I could change her mind a little. Also she’s Betty. I mean, we all know she’s pretty nice.”

_You don’t say._

A weird, unknown feeling ran through Jughead’s stomach. Where did that came from? Of course he knew that Archie cared for Betty – in a glorious friendly way, at least. He also knew that she was feeling a bit down lately (he _always_ knew). But was it a reason to suddenly realize she was worth going out with? He tried to understand and it didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t like that. But what was he supposed to say? Tell Archie to stay in his lane?

He was not jealous. He was not possessive. He was not pissed off that she might need another guy when she was feeling low. He didn’t wish he had the balls to ask her out himself.

(He was just a good liar.)

He made his bed by willingly choosing not to walk on the _feelings_ land with her. From now on, he had to sleep in it.

Who told him she was going to say yes anyways? He couldn’t tell when exactly she stopped showing explicit interest in Archie but it sure was a while ago and he was almost a hundred percent convinced that this crush was now buried six feet under. Why would she say yes?

She could totally say no. _Right?_

_Oh, but who knows_. What if she was just patiently waiting for someone to offer her _those thing s_ he couldn’t give? What if she stopped talking to him because she suddenly realized there was someone out there able to help her in ways that he never could? What if she didn’t need him anymore? _What if?_ _Fuck_. Of course she was going to say yes. He just had to watch from the sidelines, waiting for the inevitable as if he was stuck on the beach and this whole situation was a goddamn tsunami and soon there would be nothing left except for him and his _broken heart_ and his life’s a party and he’s the piñata and—yes, Jughead Jones was on the verge of freaking out.

He glanced at Archie and managed to fake a smile instead.

“That’s cool, man.”

(He was not jealous.)

 

 

Later, Jughead learned that Betty turned Archie Andrews down.

No need to write a whole thesis about that. He felt nothing but sheer relief.

(Perhaps he felt something else – he decided to leave it nameless.)

The following day, he met her at Pop’s. He was in a pretty peculiar state of mind, both intrigued and reluctant to discover what she was going to share regarding Archie’s sudden move. Turns out she didn’t bring it up at all. She started to talk about her sister and the fact that she snuck out of her room the night before to see Jason and that her mom didn’t even notice that she was dating someone and then she complained about the last English test and truthfully he couldn’t care less because he didn’t listen anymore.

He was hypnotized by the unusual way she was squeezing the straw of her vanilla milkshake between her fingers, by the slight variations in her voice when he smiled at her every now and then, and by the fact that she was regularly biting on her sinfully wonderful lips and – _woah_ , _stop_. _You need to stop doing that, Betty Cooper. It makes me wanna—I don’t know._  

Something was different. The air surrounding the booth was charged with a new energy and it made Jughead’s throat go dry. He was this close to blurt out of the blue, _what is the reason why you turned him down, Betts?_ Instead, he probably just stared at her for too long because at a certain point she stopped talking and looked away and _blushed_. She blushed at him.

Maybe he already knew the answer to his previous question – and all of a sudden everything became scary as hell.

He wondered if she knew back then.

 

…

 

They never discussed each other’s love life.

It’s not like there was anything to talk about. _Not much_ , at least 

She went on a few dates in high school, with some random guys who knew nothing about her past her blond hair. He wasn’t _delighted_ by the fact, but he never had to think about it for too long because it didn’t last.

( _She needs someone who understands her. Someone like me – who isn’t me_.)

Jughead? He didn’t do love at all.

(He kissed Toni, once. He doesn’t know why. Since, she’s into girls.)

At first, he told himself that the only reason why he never talked about dates and kisses and _feelings_ with Betty was because it wasn’t really interesting. Fair enough. They already had a bunch of inexhaustible topics – books, movies, food, and on some days, crazy families and dreams of a better life – that could make the conversation last for hours on.

Besides, did he really want to know? Did he really want her to tell him about who she kissed and how and when and where? _Huh. Nah_. He feared, if she did, that all it would’ve take was one look and she would’ve just _know_.

She would have understood that he wanted _more_.

And boy, he did. He really fucking did. But he had to leave it to the fantasies, and dig in the deepest corners of his brain to come up with the reason why _she_ wouldn’t want to talk about _his_ feelings, other than the fact that she actually wanted to be involved in said feelings (that was for the fantasies too).

Jughead tried to ignore the countless times he saw her blush at him since that day at Pop’s, or the fact that she was always gossiping with Kevin about _everyone’s_ feelings except his, and just concluded that she didn’t care or— _well, shit._

Or she did.

_Maybe_ , he thought. Maybe she knew, and maybe she was afraid too.

 

…

 

Jughead tried to pinpoint what he was afraid of.

Feelings. _More, more of her_. He promised he’d never, _never_ walk down that path. But in a blink of an eye he became starved, his bones aching for something cosmically aligned, because his life’s a symphony of unlearned lessons so _damn it_ maybe he just had to rewrite the stars himself and say he was born to be hers.

She had to meet him halfway for that to happen, though. Was he afraid of rejection? Not really. He was nothing but used to it, he could handle it, as long as he didn’t lose her in the process. Oh, so was he afraid of losing her? Nope. She would never let him down. She promised him _friends, forever_ , and she’d never break her promises – unlike him.

Maybe he feared that it would become awkward. Weird. Different. Maybe he just misinterpreted the hints she seemed to send, maybe it was time to murder these fantasies of his and acknowledge that she would never feel what he felt that made everything they had so, so special and maybe he was afraid of rejection after all and _maybe, maybe, maybe_ …

Bullshit.

He knew her.

The truth is, he wasn’t afraid that she didn’t feel the same about him.

He was _terrified_ that she did.

 

To some extent, Jughead would admit that Betty deserved better than him – based on the fact that she was a freaking goddess and he was probably as useful as the lid of a McFlurry. However, he was also pretty convinced at the time that he could treat her just _right_ , and that _no one_ would ever understand her as well as he did.

He was conflicted. But it didn’t really matter in the end, because he’s been forged to always envisage ends before even thinking of beginnings.

That was, let’s say it, the basis of his irrational fear.

Big thanks to mom and dad for that. For putting all that effort in showing him that nothing lasts and proving him that love would never be enough when it comes to swallow one’s pride, for being the living example that loving someone is hurting someone at some point and for making it clear in his head that nobody deserved to get through this.

Especially not the most precious human being he’s ever known.

It wasn’t the moment he was going to tell Betty that he wanted more with her that made panic rise inside his chest. It was the day he’d mechanically follow his parents’ steps and _hurt her_ in spite of himself, because why would it happen otherwise? The universe had a neat storyline for him. He couldn’t take the risk to hold her too close.

(He muted the voice in his head saying she was worth all the risks.)

He couldn’t bear the thought of her becoming like him, her precious smile slowly fading away as she’d start to see the world as he did – like a donut. So much sweet stuff, and a giant hole in the middle.

That was irrational. But he was stuck with it.

He would’ve wanted everything to be simple, for him to be able to stick to what he already had without constantly longing for _more_ , to look into her eyes and not feel that warmth in his heart when he sees she’s looking back. Feelings are a trap. He would’ve wanted not to crave her touch. He would’ve wanted not to notice the little things she did that made him go all heart eyes for her. He would’ve wanted to be normal instead of being the emotional heavyweight she was forced to drag behind her.

He didn’t mean to fall in love.

 

…

 

Jason Blossom was murdered.

A kid was murdered, and then everything seemed to happen at once. Betty’s sister vanished into the air and reappeared with not only one but _two_ babies, Veronica Lodge landed in Riverdale with the devil’s associates whom she liked to call her parents, the maple syrup industry gave way to a drug trade, Jughead’s dad went on a little trip to jail, a serial killer decided to play hide and seek, a fucking farm cult was formed and this town is a fucking joke.

( _His life_ is a joke, and he fell asleep in the middle of the punchline.)

So, what was he supposed to do now? Run away? Lock himself in the trailer? Waiting for the day he’d go completely batshit crazy? _Nah._  

Rather be the hunter than the prey, they said.

Jughead decided to team up with Betty and try to solve the mysteries of their town.

(That’s what normal kids do. Right?)

While his dad was trying to redeem himself by calling his wife ten times a day and Betty’s mom was acting like her husband didn’t cheat on her the night before (talk about role models, _geez_ ), they locked themselves at the Blue and Gold and wrote and investigated and tracked down targets and wrote again.

They tried to find answers.

They became two teenagers acting like they had the weight of the world on their shoulders. _Can’t we be seventeen?_ Jughead wished sometimes. _Is that so hard to do?_

The thing is he knew that, for Betty as for him, investigate was a way to keep their heads out of their own troubles. Not that it wasn’t linked – his dad was involved in a murder, and Alice and Polly joined this weird farm cult, after all (once again, role models). They were directly concerned, but at least they weren’t the preys.

And he didn’t even had time for _feelings_ (barely). Maybe it was for the best.

 

He was perched on a desk at the Blue and Gold, feet on the chair before him and eyes on the full murder board. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he and Betty found out that the _Black Hood_ was Hal Cooper – yeah, Betty’s dad. It didn’t even make sense anymore. Maybe it wasn’t real life, maybe they were on a crappy TV show and they lost the remote control somewhere in the abyss.

Jughead’s gaze switched from the murder board to study Betty’s movements. She was pacing across the room, hands frantically rubbing the back of her neck while muttering something close to _what are we supposed to do?_

_You shouldn’t have to do anything_ was on the tip of his tongue. She looked so tired. He wanted to open his arms wide enough for her to come find shelter in them, and tell her it’ll be okay. _Yeah, Betts. Your dad’s a serial killer but hey, at least it’ll not be hard to do better than him_.

“I’m not even surprised, Jug,” her incredibly steady voice reached his ears. “I’m not surprised that we just found out that my father is a serial killer. He’s my _dad_. And in this crazy hellhole, it almost sounds normal.”

She raised the palm of her hand to her forehead and sighed, stepping closer to him. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

He knew it was a rhetorical question – she wasn’t really expecting an answer. Still, he gave her one. “You’ll survive. Remember when you told me that our crazy families would never define us?” She nodded weakly. “You’ll do better. The storm will pass. And it’s only then, in the quiet moments after the storm, that we see who was strong enough to survive it, right? You’re strong.” _The strongest_. “You’ll survive.”

She met his gaze. He tensed a little, because she honestly looked like she wanted to cry and that wasn’t the intent of his intervention at all, but then he saw the briefest hint of a smile playing on her lips when she said, “Yeah, I guess if you and I don’t survive this storm, then no one else does.”

Jughead shrugged, Betty rolled her eyes, and he laughed, and she laughed and they laughed together because _at least they had each other_ and he would’ve done anything for it to become the official soundtrack of his heart but then he recalled her pain and the fact that he didn’t know how to completely eradicate it and he was mad at himself because he wanted to do _more, more, more_ —

“I’m sorry, Betts,” he blurted out.

She stopped laughing, and he missed the melody right away. In a few movements he couldn’t quite register, she sat next to him on the desk, her thigh brushing his. He may or may not have shuddered.

“What are you sorry for, Juggie?” she asked him softly. _She’s always so soft_. “None of this is your fault.”

_Maybe, but still—_

“I’m sorry for not being there for you like I should be. I—I don’t know. I’m mad at myself sometimes. Everything’s falling apart and you just—you don’t deserve to get through this and I want you to know that I really wish I could help you even if I’m not doing a good job at that right now. I mean, _you_ are always there when I’m losing my shit and it’s like I’ll never be able to do the same for you. I’m sorry for that, I guess.”

Silence. _Great_ , Jughead thought, his confused feelings floating peacefully in the air around them. He looked at the ground. There was nothing to do but wait, wait until his caring best friend tells him that _it’s okay, Juggie, you have other things in mind than me and it’s fine_.

But those words never came out.

Instead, he heard a quick laugh. Then, “Are you done?”

His eyes immediately shot up to meet hers. He was unable to decipher what he saw there – irony? Compassion? Love? _Huh_.

She straightened up and shifted a little on the desk to face him. She was dead serious. “Is all that’s happening starting to mess up with your head for good?” she asked, and he realized he might have forgot how to speak.

“Don’t you dare say that again, Jughead. You are there for me. You were _always_ there, when nobody else was. God, you should know that, right? Why are you…” she trailed off, lowering her gaze into her lap then trapping her lip between her perfect white teeth. _Breathe, Jones_. “You say I’m strong, but I don’t think I could survive this without you. We’re both damaged, but at least we’re in this together, right? So please, don’t. Don’t think you’re not enough.”

_But I’m not. You deserve more, more, more_. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, because she was so beautiful and way too good for this world and her lips looked so soft and fuck if she wasn’t looking at _his_ lips at that exact moment.

_I could be good with you._

_I could be, I could be, I could be…_

She leaned forward – so, so slowly – and in a brief moment of euphoria, he understood that she was going to kiss him. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck_. Fire took control of his body and his mind started to race in an attempt to find a way to tame the flames.

_Let go. You want this, you want this._

She was looking at his lips again.

_No, don’t do that to her. Abort._

Closer.

_Do it._

A few inches.

_Don’t._

He turned his head.

_You coward._

Jughead snapped his eyes shut until he saw stars. He barely felt her head lean on his shoulder, her sigh tumble next to his ear, and he could’ve practically missed the disappointment in her tone when she whispered, “I wish we could just go.”

(Practically.)

“Me too,” he whispered back. “Me too.”

…

 

Let’s go back to Veronica Lodge, shall we?

If he put aside the fact that her parents were irrevocably Satan’s related, Jughead would say that she was one of the most normal things that happened in his life lately. She became Betty’s best girl ( _he_ still was her best friend), Archie’s new love of his busy life, and his… friend, by proxy. He had nothing against her, per se.

But there was one thing, one, that made him want to strangle her with that pearl necklace she seemed to like so much (with kindness).

He did a good job, so far, at carefully avoiding each potential conversation involving the words “love” and “Betty” in the same sentence. Not talking about it, ever, to anyone, seemed to be the perfect way to convince himself that a _certain feeling_ would eventually pass.

(Spoiler: it didn’t.)

But then there was Veronica, and her strong, infuriating habit of side-eying him every time Betty would do or say something. Anything. Every damn time.

With nothing but good intentions, no doubt. She noticed, that’s all (at this point, only Archie seemed not to have noticed yet, bless him). But Jughead knew, oh he knew right away that the day would come she’d lay the subject flat on the table. He dreaded this moment.

 

It happened when they were all settled at the cafeteria, Veronica, Archie, Betty and him. As usual, Jughead finished his meal before everyone else and he was still hungry. As usual, Betty noticed and saved something for him. This time, it was a peach. All good so far. When she and Archie stood up to leave, she put the appealing fruit in front of him and winked. _The wink_. Just like that, Jughead forgot that there were other human beings around them.

“Thanks, Betts,” he grinned at her. “I’ll save you my next banana.”

After that smooth line of his, he focused only on her bright smile and the way she waved at him while turning back to follow Archie outside of the cafeteria. Maybe he stared a little at her (and not just at her ass, _huh_ ). When he finally decided to land back on earth, his gaze landed on the other side of the table and that’s when reality hurt him like a damn alarm on a Monday morning.

He’d forgotten Veronica. She was still sitting there, eyes narrowing at him and hands carefully clasped under her chin. _Shit_. She pinched her lips, and he knew it was time.

“What was that?” She asked.

Jughead grabbed his bottle of water, and shot her a faux questioning look in order to say _what do you mean_ before taking a sip. Wrong move.

“A bit early to start the foreplay, don’t you think?” she added, and he spontaneously choked on his water. She completely ignored this fact though, and gestured loosely above the table. “I mean, that whole fruit exchange, the eye-fu –”

_Oh god no_. He abruptly raised a hand in her direction, cutting her off. “Please, don’t say eye-fucking, Veronica.”

“Eye-fucking, Jughead,” she confirmed with what looked like a smirk. “I only state facts.”

He buried his face in his hands for her to see that he was already _very_ annoyed by this interaction (and not to hide his sudden blushing). “It was casual conversation with my best friend.” _What else could it have been?_

“Uh-huh. Cute,” Veronica quipped. Then, “Does she know?”

He looked up and sighed. “What?”

“That you’re like… head over heels in love with her.”

“That’s—” He trailed off, not sure of what he was going to reply. He didn’t want to talk about things he couldn’t quite figure out himself. “I’m not.”

At that, Veronica rolled her eyes so hard he though they were going to stay stuck in the back of her head. _Yup_ , that was the mood. “Spare me, Jughead. Like I said, I only state facts. Now let me ask you this: you’re aware she likes you, right?”

His heart did a thing. A tiny jump. _I think I know_ , he wanted to say without an ounce of hesitation. _I know and it’s scary as hell_.

“It’s not that simple,” he admitted instead, taking the peach in his hand.

“You like her, she likes you. You’re so close already. Tell me where’s the issue.”

He could’ve told her, if only he knew.

At his lack of response, Veronica shook her head. “Anyways. Honestly _broody boy_ , if you don’t make a move, I will.”

Jughead frowned at that. “Huh, weren’t you still into Archie this morning?”

She let out a laugh and started to get up. “Oh, Jughead. I just know how to appreciate what’s beautiful.” She paused for a second, as if she was studying him in order to decide if _he_ was beautiful or not. Then she made a strange “tsk” sound with her teeth.

“And please, stop manipulating this poor peach like it’s Betty’s ass. Just eat it.”

(Jughead deliberately decided that she was talking about the peach.)

And with that, she rearranged her hair, grabbed her coat and left the cafeteria.

He looked at the fruit in his hand and groaned. _Damn it_. He bit on it.

 

…

 

At night, he dreamed of her. He dreamed of what they could have been. He dreamed of a life where she could’ve taught Jellybean how to wear lipstick because she and their mom would’ve never left town. He dreamed of his dad telling him he’s proud that he found a girl like her. He dreamed of something even better than friends forever. He dreamed of dirty love and sounds from heaven and all the ways he could touch her to make her feel like she’s the most beautiful creature on this planet (spoiler: she is).

His wildest thoughts allowed him to dream that they lit both their childhood’s houses on fire and then proceeded to fuck in his car because they were free to do so and, well, no better turn on than arson.

But every damn time, the aftermath was the same – he woke up alone right next to his own defeat, aching for her, aching for more.

 

In some other godforsaken universe, they could have been roommates in New York or snowed in a damn cabin with only one bed to witness everything they’d have to say to each other. Maybe they would have met in a coffee shop on a rainy day and debate for hours on about their shitty jobs or even better, be co-workers who savagely make out during breaks on a regular basis. Maybe they could have been fake dating or trapped under the mistletoe, so he would’ve had a nice pretext to put his lips on hers.

But his reality was fucked up, and he had to remind himself over and over again not to drown in her like the forlorn castaway he was.

 

…

 

 

All it took was one question.

“Speaking of prom night. Got a date already, Jug?”

Jughead let his mind wander the second Betty pronounced those words – picturing her in a long prom dress, probably matching her sparkling eyes, a genuine smile on her angelic face as he’d take her hand in the middle of the crowd. _Let’s be normal after the chaos._ He imagined slow dancing, long waited intimacy, tiny butterflies on his belly – and he went on full panic mode.

_Ask her, ask her, ask her. She’s going to say yes. Ask her. It’s just prom._

But what was he again? Oh, right. A coward. So he acted as such.

“Huh, nah. You know I don’t do dance and stuff. I’ll probably show up for half an hour and take advantage of the free buffet, though.”

And for the second time, he tried to pretend he didn’t see disappointment all over her face as she nodded absentmindedly at his attempt of a joke.

He tried, and he failed.

 

 

…

She turned eighteen.

It marked ten years of their relationsh—friendship.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to spend ten more like this.

 

…

 

Betty – _his_ Betty, his best friend, his partner, his _angel_ – ended up crying on prom night because of Chuck fucking Clayton.

(And not because of him.)

 

He did as he said, and went to the party only to make an appearance and steal some toasts. And to see _her_ – of course. As expected (and as always), she took his breath away. Maybe she really was a goddess after all. Her prom dress a light blue that brought out her eyes perfectly, and her hair down in soft waves. Her _date_ was Kevin (always the best gay) and honestly Jughead wanted to kick his own ass for indirectly turning her down on her offer. Well, technically she didn’t ask him to be her date.

He just knew deep inside that she wanted to.

That disappointed look haunted him.

But he was a sucker for punishment, so he paid the consequences – she was beyond beautiful that night, but not for him.

 

Then he went back to the trailer.

( _Note for too late: you left her_.)

For once, things were going quite well with his dad. There was no alcohol on the table, no blame, just the sound of the TV in the background. They didn’t chat much, but at least they weren’t yelling at each other. Slumped on the ratty couch, Jughead was thinking about his favourite blonde who was probably enjoying the rest of her night with her friends. He could have stay with them, with her. But he needed time to think. For real.

Maybe it was time to face the truth. He _loved_ her. He was very aware of how bad he wanted to be with her, to touch her, to kiss her, to _keep_ her. The thought of her being with someone else was eating him up inside, and he carefully began to realize that if he didn’t act soon, it was exactly what was going to happen.

Maybe it was time to act. Kick his inner demons, man up and _try_. Consider the possibility that it could work.

Try.

(He just didn’t know _how_ yet.)

 

Later that night, Jughead received three consecutive texts from Veronica.

“Please go to Betty’s." 

“I walked her home, she said she wants to be alone.”

 “I think she needs you.”

_She needs you. She needs you._

He felt an electric shock throughout his whole body. _What’s going on?_ _What happened?_ No need to tell him twice. He didn’t wait any longer, telling his dad he’d be right back. Or not. Nevermind. He took the truck and drove straight to Elm Street.

Veronica didn’t answer to his text asking her to elaborate, and he grew worried as fuck. _She needs you_.

When he reached Betty’s house, he immediately saw the dim light coming from her bedroom and didn’t think twice (he decidedly didn’t think twice for anything that night) before walking to the ladder that could help him come up there. He was ninety-nine percent sure that Alice wasn’t even in that house, so the front door would’ve been a fairly safe option, but just because he felt like some sort of knight in shining he didn’t mind taking the risk of breaking one or two ankles by falling off this goddamn ladder.

As he – carefully, though – climbed the steps one by one, the words kept repeating in his head again and again. _She needs you. She needs you_. He didn’t even know _why_ , and these were Veronica’s words, not Betty’s to begin with. But he couldn’t bring himself to care, because by the time he reached the window he thought he was a fucking Romeo and he had the audacity to _smile_ while his twisted mind was fueled by the idea that _Juliet needs him_ —

Then he shot a glance through the window, and his fantasies slowly drowned into nothingness.

Juliet was crying.

She was curled up in her bed, prom dress still on and one of her fluffy pillows clutched against her chest. Despite the fact that she wasn’t facing him, he could see the telltale irregularity of her breathing and knew she was crying.

The sight only made him want to explode the thick material that separated them, then the sound of her tiny sobs broke the quiet of the night and stabbed him right in the heart.

He knocked twice, ever so slightly.

She jumped and he winced. _She needs you._ She straightened up, turned towards the window, and green eyes met blue.

Fear.

That was the first thing that reflected in her gaze before she realized it was Jughead and quickly looked away, wiped her tears, stood up and opened the window.

“What are you doing here? Just—go home, Jug,” she sniffled, and he could see that she was trying hard to keep her voice as steady as possible. He wanted to answer right away, _I’m home, home is you_ , but he was so focused on the fact that she was also trying to avoid any eye contact, as if he couldn’t see the black streaks of her ruined make up along her cheeks.

As if he couldn’t see she was completely and utterly broken.

“What happened, Betts?” he managed to ask in a measured tone, despite the growing lump in his throat.

He knew her too damn well not to notice that she was doing her best to keep her chin from trembling, her hands from shaking and her eyes from watering again.

_Let it go. I’m here._  

But – was he really there? Or was he too far away?

She didn’t give him an audible answer, and he couldn’t take it anymore. Seeing her like this soon became insufferable so he hurried to climb the window sill, closed that useless distance between them and pulled her tight against his chest. _Here_. She went still for a second, then she hesitantly wrapped her bare arms around his waist. He buried his face in her hair, taking in her heavenly intoxicating scent before whispering one more time, “What happened?”

That’s when she fell apart in his arms.

She burst into tears, clutching at his sweater like he was her anchor and she was about to drown. He’d seen her cry before, but it had never been so wrenching, so out of control, so _unescapable_.

“I hate myself, Jug,” she hiccuped into his chest, “I _hate_ myself.”

She emphasized the word with such determination that he chose to clench his jaw until it hurt just to feel something other than the reverberation of her pain right through him.

She was crying for lies he refused to believe, while he never shed a tear for truths he was trying to ignore.

He tightened his grip around her. _Don’t, please don’t._

“I did—I did a bad thing,” she confessed through her sobs, and he began to run his hand up and down her back in an attempt to soothe her a little. It seemed to work as he felt her take a long, deep breath before she pulled back just enough so he could see her eyes were closed. “We were all dancing and I was with Chuck and— “

_Chuck?_

“We kissed. It’s all a blur but I remember we kissed while dancing and then I told Vee and Arch I was going to get some fresh air outside and Chuck came with me and, and—” The last words came out in a strangled whisper and she paused, barely letting him the time to process.

She kissed Chuck. Why? Oh right – because she had the right to do so if she wanted to. But did she? With _Chuck Clayton?_ He didn’t see that coming. Kevin was her date. He’s gay, but still. Did she had to _kiss_ someone that night?

Jughead was jealous. Absolutely, perfectly, deeply jealous.

(He chose not to be her date. He didn’t ask her. _He left her_.) 

Now why on earth did she end up crying?

(Anger was starting to rise inside him.)

“We made a detour in the locker room for him to grab some smokes, but then we started kissing again.” She buried her face in his neck and he felt his own body tense in anticipation. How disturbing, to hold her so close when she was actually so, so far away from him. “He kissed me, then things quickly got pretty heated and—god, I’m a mess.”

An unwelcome shiver ran down Jughead’s spine and he carefully took a step back, gently pushing her away and breaking every physical contact. She seemed suddenly frozen without his touch. But he wanted to see her face, he needed to clearly understand what she was trying to tell him.

_No. No, no, no._

“Betty.” He tried to find all the calm he could muster. “Look at me.” She obeyed and looked up. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

He could perceive a hint of shame in her eyes. He nodded, slowly, in order to tell her that _it’s okay, you can tell me, always_. She looked away from him again.

“I’m not sure I knew what I was doing, I barely remember how we ended up there but then he started to _touch_ me and—and everything happened so fast. At one point I just realized he was close, too close and I don’t know, I just—I freaked out and I told him to go. Before… you know. Anyway, that was stupid. That’s all.”

_That’s all._

By the time she stopped talking, Jughead’s fists started to hurt by clenching them too hard and he couldn’t stand to look at her so he squeezed his eyes shut. His head was reeling. _He touched her, he touched her._ Before he had the intelligence to stop himself, the words came out. “I swear, I’m going to kill him.”

He was ready to go and jump through the window to do so, but he felt a tentative hand grab his wrist and it made his eyes fly open. _Her touch_. Now she could see. She could see how much it was affecting him, but she didn’t flinch.

“No, no Jug,” she urged, shaking her head. “He didn’t—I mean, maybe I wasn’t clear enough. He didn’t force me to do anything, he— “

He cut her off by brutally removing his wrist from her grip, then it all went down. All he had to do was to reassure her, be there for her and tell her she did nothing wrong. It wasn’t time for his bullshit. But he was a lost cause when it came to her, when it came to the only girl he’s ever loved, so he took another step back and crossed the line.   

“I don’t fucking care. You think this is okay? You think this piece of garbage has a right to put his hands on you when yesterday he didn’t give a shit about you?  What if you didn’t tell him to stop?”

It made his head spin. He had to _protect_ her. He wasn’t there for her.

“You’d be okay with that right now? God, Betty. What were you thinking? Is that really what you wanted? With _Chuck_? You know what guys like him do!”

He started yelling at her like the emotionally unstable idiot he was until he realized she was crying again. _Great_ , he thought. _Who’s the piece of garbage now?_

He cursed his own self for spitting words he couldn’t take back.

He didn’t expect her to take a step towards him, but she did and if a look could kill, he would’ve been digging his own grave on her bedroom floor.

“I’m not like you, Jughead,” she said in a half whisper, and it made his ears buzz in return. “I can’t just shut down all my feelings whenever I want.”

_Take that pill, Jones, and swallow._

“And I know people don’t give a shit about me, but thanks for the reminder.”

Jughead stayed still, and she took another step closer. “You wanna know what I wanted?” she asked, her voice shaking but laced with anger as she now stood only inches away from him.

She didn’t even let him the time to open his dumb mouth again, because soon she was yelling back.

“I wanted to _feel_ something! I wanted for someone to finally look at me and _want_ me, I just… I just wanted to feel wanted. Is that a crime? And yes, okay, maybe it got out of hands because clearly I’m still unable to control my damn emotions but you know what? I think I don’t regret it after all. I’m done crying. Even if it was Chuck, at least I know _someone_ wanted me.”

Jughead wished he was deaf.

And blind.

And dead.

_See?_ His inner voice mocked him. _See what you did to her? She thinks nobody wants her. She thinks you don’t want her. Satisfied?_

(He chose to erase her words from his memory, and begged his brain to internalize it one last time: _she was crying because of Chuck_.

He refused to admit she was crying because of _him._ )

The quiet of her bedroom was interrupted by the staccato of her breathing, and his head was akin to a fucking time bomb. _Tick, tick_. He messed up. All he had to do was move his hand a little to reach for her and wipe her tears, then say _I’m sorry, I’m an idiot_ but he was motionless.

He left her. He didn’t take care of her. He’s incapable and helpless and selfish and so, so _in love_ and-

“I just wanted to feel something,” Betty repeated, voice alarmingly low this time, breaking the silence and his spiral of self loathing thoughts. “Anything.”

It took him by surprise, and it gave him an unpleasant feeling of déjà vu. Like a sorrowful reflex, his gaze fell automatically on her hands. They were shaking and clenched into fists. _Don’t._

_I’m sorry_. Jughead was hoping that his actions were subtitles to words she couldn’t hear when he finally reached for her hands, silently asking for her permission.

_Don’t be stupid like me. Don’t push me away._

She let him take her hands in his, and, with endless precaution, he opened her palms to reveal her scars. _Feel something. Anything_. She tensed a little, so he began to rub his thumbs lightly over her damaged skin. She sighed.

He closed his eyes the second he heard her ask in a hushed tone, “Do you hate me, Juggie?”

_If only you knew._

He fought a mad, mad urge to lean forward and kiss her.

But timing was a bitch, and he couldn’t. Not when he was acting like a total jerk with her, not when she was so vulnerable between his hands. It wasn’t fair. _Nothing_ was fair.

If only he could set the world on fire and watch it burn, burn, burn and just take her and get the hell out of here.

_I wish we could just go._

He brought her back into his arms instead.  

She could’ve pushed him away, but she didn’t. She let him in.

“No,” Jughead breathed as she snaked her arms around him. He pressed a kiss into her hair. “I don’t hate you.”

He had to do something. He had to mark this moment, to prove a point, to make another promise to himself. He had an idea – and this idea sat on the top of his head.

(People never really mention his beanie. But let’s be honest, it never leaves him, it’s clearly a part of him at this point. And nobody points out the fact that someone has a nose and two legs, so they don’t point out that he has a beanie.)

That night, Jughead Jones decided to show Betty Cooper that she would always be a part of him. Because he couldn’t form coherent words to tell her yet and because this timing was definitely the worse, he simply took his beanie out of his head and placed it on hers. 

“You deserve so much better than to be another priceless work of art in someone’s gallery, Betty,” he said as his hands rest on her shoulders. “Please, believe me.”

She sniffled and shrugged, but he didn’t miss the small smile playing on her lips when she replied, “If you say so.”

This time, it was her who reached for a hug.

“I’m sorry, I’m an idiot,” he whispered close to her ear.

_I’m an idiot and I love you_ , he added to himself.

_I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you._

 

 

…

 

 

Jughead graduated high school.

He always told himself that it would be the perfect moment to finally start living a new life – a real one. Find a job, move out of the trailer for good, prove that he’d not end up like his dad (who’d made progress, he conceded). Maybe find an editor and become a writer.

He never considered leaving Riverdale, though.

It’s kind of contradictory, come to think of it. How many times did he say he wanted to get the hell out of this cursed town? How many walls did he punch wishing he was somewhere else? How could he start a new life _here_?

But he never really imagined the day he would actually leave.

(At least, not _alone_.)

No worries, that said, because he was nowhere near ready to do so.

There he was, five months after stepping out of Riverdale High, working his shift at Pop’s because that was the only way he found to earn some money (and because he loved Pop Tate. And burgers. And the fact that on his breaks he could just sit at his favorite booth and write).

Jughead could sum up the whole situation by using the following word: incoherent – nothing had changed but everything was thoroughly different.

He was still living at the trailer, he still didn’t have a mom (he had half of a dad at least, let’s say), Pop’s still made the best milkshakes ever and Riverdale still had some solid murder vibes. 

However, almost all of his fellow classmates were nowhere to be seen. They’ve been accepted to college or sent in whatever institution in order to pursue their _future plans_ (he wondered what it felt like – to have plans for the future). On one hand, he got rid of the bottom of the garbage can – guys like Chuck (he did a great job by not calling him that every time he crossed his way), but on the other hand, he also had to say goodbye to people he actually _liked_.

Toni left with Cheryl – thanks to Cheryl – and that was great. He was happy for them. Archie left too, he moved to Chicago with her mother but promised he’d be back on every holidays. Jughead missed him. Veronica left for New York (he didn’t really miss her, though) and he could go on and on and on.

Everybody left.

  
Except him.

And Betty.

(Right, that too – he still was hopelessly in love with Betty Cooper.

Did he finally tell her? Hold on—)

 

No need to specify that Jughead didn’t apply for college, he would’ve needed founds and – scoop – he didn’t have enough money. But _she_ could have. No – in fact she _wanted_ to apply, but it was not counting on Alice Cooper, mother of excellence, who decided that her daughter apparently didn’t need a journalism degree or whatever to work at the Register and do the things she couldn’t do anymore because she was too busy with the farm (no comment).

Betty could’ve say no. It probably wouldn’t have changed anything in the end, but at least she could’ve retorted. She didn’t. And it made his heart ache, to see that she was slowly giving up on her dreams because of the path someone else had traced for her – she still was a bird locked up in a cage, and they clipped her wings when she was born to fly.

Now if he was a selfish asshole, Jughead would’ve been relieved.

(He was.)

Everybody left, but she stayed. And he could do little but being infinitely grateful, because he had no fucking idea how to handle his everyday life without her in it.

If she were to leave…?

He’s never considered that either.

She had been his only consistency during all these years, always there, everywhere, the river he could follow and the landmark on the map he could refer to when he was about to get lost. She had always been his _home_ , after all.

Let’s set things straight – without her, he would go off the rails.

Wasn’t it the perfect moment to throw all of his feelings at her face for good and incorporate her in his _future plans_?

(Implied – before it’s too late?)

After prom night and what was said between the four walls of Betty’s bedroom, things had been pretty much… the same.

She still was that end-of-a-rainbow-looking treasure he wanted to protect at all costs, and he still was that boy with abandonment issues who didn’t fear more to be abandoned himself than to abandon his treasure.

Since he put his beanie at the top of her head, Betty had never looked like she wanted to kiss him. So he never tried either. He could have, though. But just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should, right? Right. Maybe it wasn’t the right time yet. Maybe the right time would never come. Maybe it doesn’t exist. Maybe he still was a complete coward and maybe this was a vicious circle and she certainly deserved better after all and- 

And before he knew it, he locked himself up into something he didn’t know how to escape. He climbed into the safety of himself until he could no longer tell what was right, or wrong, or safe, or not.

He wanted her. She wanted him – or perhaps she didn’t want him anymore. Or she never wanted him at all. But he thought – nevermind. They both needed time.

Jughead was fine. Because she was still there, she didn’t leave like they all did, she was still gravitating in his orbit and he still had time.

He still had time.

 

Until she slammed the door open at Pop’s one day while he was working.

Her eyes laced with pure anger, putting both her hands on the counter and, with one quick look at him, unleashing his biggest fear.

“I’m done Jug. I swear she’s insufferable, I’m done. I’m gonna apply for NYU. Right now. After next summer, I don’t want to leave in the same town as Alice Cooper anymore.”

 And here began another fight between two stubborn voices in his head.

_Fly away, little bird_ , said one.

_Please, don’t go_ , countered the other. _Please, don’t leave me_.

 

 

…

 

 

And then there’s now.

Now, by reminiscing the last eleven years of his life, Jughead is somehow forced to admit that he gave up on her.

That’s precisely what leads him to this exact moment.

Six months later, on his way to his nineteenth birthday, always a coward, always serving fries at Pop’s when the girl he’s gone for once again slams the dinner’s door open, except this time she’s not angry with her mother. 

It’s a rainy evening, but she contrasts with the weather. Because this time, she’s beaming like the fucking sun.

There’s a wide smile plastered on her face as she stands before him, breathless, her chest rising at a frenetic pace as thought she just _ran_ to him, as thought she couldn’t wait any longer to pronounce these exact words,

“I’m moving, Jug.”

Then everything fades to black.

 

_Think, Jones, think. You knew it was bound to happen_. He knows he has to react at some point, but the words are stuck in his throat as he’s trying to process what she just said. _I’m moving_. The voices that were battling in his head a few months ago are now sipping tea together while watching him struggle to form a coherent thought. Of course he waited too long, of course he gave up because that’s what the Joneses do, that’s what they are. He had _years_ to act, to make sure he would never have to get through _this_ , but he gave up. _You gave up, you gave up, you gave up._ No surprises here. It was his choice. The blame is on him.

And now she’s here and she’s so proud and so happy and so relieved and he’d do anything for her to be this shining every single day so what is he supposed to say?

It’s looping in his head – _I’m moving_.

He can easily cut the sentence in half, in order to conduct a somewhat two-steps analysis. The _I am_ part induces that this is a personal action. As for the _moving_ part, it can be replaced by  _leaving_. _I’m moving_ , without further indication, means that she’s leaving, and she’s leaving alone.

_She’s leaving without me._

And she looks delighted by the fact. She’s grabbing his forearms now, jumping on the spot because she doesn’t seem to be able to contain her joy. As if she isn’t going to leave town. As if she isn’t going to leave him.

As if he’s not threatened to become _homeless_.

Jughead thinks he hears the words _accepted_ and _program_ and _New York_ but his mind goes blank and he’s mad, he’s mad because he can’t help but focus on her lips and on the fact that he’ll never be able to kiss that smile off her face because soon she will be _gone_.

He’s mad, but shouldn’t he be satisfied? Distance is a word made up by someone who’s afraid to get too close. Someone like him. Someone who’s terrified to give in, to love and to be loved, to such a point that when he should be screaming _don’t go_ , he stutters like a five-year-old instead. 

“Oh—oh okay, that’s—that’s great, Betts.”

Except that is not great. That is terrifying. That is inconceivable.

She nods fervently, like she wants to confirm each scenario that crosses his cluttered mind. “I just… I can’t believe I’m going to move to _New York_. Doesn’t matter if my mother and her cult want to exorcize me, I’m leaving. Do you believe it, Juggie?”

Does he?

All around him is fast moving but he can’t keep his eyes off her, even if it hurts like hell to see how she’s _relieved_ to leave. He understands. God, he understands. He is so proud of her. He is proud of this gem of a girl who deserves to chase her dreams, he’s glad she has a chance to move away.

He’s so fucking glad and so, so _mad_.

She’s leaving and he stays here because he’ll never get the chance to follow her somewhere and why would she want him to follow her anyway? He’s a coward, an incompetent, a mistake. He’ll stay here and he’ll rot here and he’ll die here without her because she leaves him, she gives him up and she continues to spit her happiness on his face—

“Finally I can get the hell out of this town. Get away from my parents, from all that happened here, from everything that’s holding me back, from— “

“From me.”

She stops.

Jughead doesn’t know anymore what kind of contortions his brain acrobats are doing in the circus that is his head. He used to hate seeing her cry and now he hates seeing her smile that much, he hates the way she moves forward while he’s constantly running backward, he hates that it’s his fault if her smile turns into a frown when she asks,

“What?”

“Get away from me.” He repeats instantly.

She looks at him now, still in the middle of Pop’s dinner, she’s _really_ looking at him without rambling about the fact that _she’s moving_ and it’s like she doesn’t understand why he’s not dancing on the counter to celebrate. She’s staring and he’s staring and he’s not going to stop because he wants her to understand.

He can tell it’s not going to end well the second she takes a step closer to him. _Don’t. Please don’t push my buttons, cause I’m about to cross the line again._

“That’s… you know you’re one of the only things keeping me sane here, Jug. The only one, I’d say. I don’t want to leave you. But New York is only a two hours’ drive from here, it’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, right,” Jughead scoffs. _You don’t understand_.

She folds her arms across her chest, and her forehead wrinkles. “You definitely sound delighted. What’s going on, Jug?”

_What’s going on is that I can’t make the difference between you moving two hours away from here because you want to have a decent future and you leaving me behind because I’m not good enough for this exact future._

He hasn’t moved since she started to talk. Not an inch. Yet he’d like to run, to crawl, to punch something, to break something, anything that could let his mind wander elsewhere. But his feet stay firmly stuck on the ground, and he starts fidgeting with the apron he’s wearing in order to keep his hands busy.

“Nothing. I’m happy for you.” This is not entirely a lie. “Though even if I wasn’t, would it really matter?” The answer is no. “I mean, who the hell am I?” _Nobody_.

Now it’s him who’s rambling and she stares at him as if she’s trying to solve a damn equation. He should know by now that there’s a time to let go, to accept and to step back. He should know that he’s standing high, so high on such a breakable thread but he keeps asking himself _why, why, why_ is she doing that to him and then, once again, it’s too late.

“It’s not like we’re dating or something,” he blurts out in the middle of nowhere.

It could have merely been a simple observation, a joke, a tease between two best friends during an early night chat.

It’s not.

It’s a string of stupid words following which he looks away, therefore he doesn’t have to see their effects on her oh so expressive face. It’s what a boy with a confirmed lack of intelligence says before he realizes that he messed up.

His heart is pounding in his ears.

“Oh really?” Betty replies, and he can only imagine the way her eyebrows shoot up when she speaks.

He huffs. “Nevermind. Forget it.”

There’s a stain on the floor and he chooses to focus on it. He can’t look at her. There’s so much happening inside his head right now, and it feels like he’s too far from the start to even remember how he got himself here in the first place. He needs to press pause. No – scratch that. Rewind. Press rewind. _Get your shit together_. Turn back time.

But he can’t.

He can’t turn back time, and he knows he’s fucked when three simple words send his whole body into a spiral of shivers, three simple words harshly pronounced pushing him to cut the crap and come back down to earth for good.

“Say it, Jughead.”

He doesn’t waste time studying her features when he lays his eyes on her again, because he knows that _she knows_. He’s back to what was never said, all the truths running back and forth inside his head as he throws caution to the wind.

It’s been a long, long time since it’s too late to press rewind.

“Fine! Fine. I don’t want you to leave. That’s what you want to hear? I don’t know what it’s like to be here without you, and it scares the shit out of me. But what was I supposed to do? Ask you to stay?”

“Yes! Maybe! I don’t know!” She uncrosses her arms and rolls her eyes. Clearly, she seems as done with him as he is himself. “We could have talked about this, you know, like we used to before you start to close up like a damn oyster.”

_Point taken_ , Jughead thinks.

For six whole months, he knew there was a great probability that it would happen. He didn’t say anything, in hopes it would make it less real. Unlearned lessons, as usual. Now he pays the price of his silence – from the past six months, and from the past eleven years, when she lowers her voice and steps closer 

“You think _I_ know how to handle it?”

He tenses and looks down. “It’s different.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not.”

“Yes it is, Betty. You can’t understand.”

_Can’t she? What are you trying to prove now? That she doesn’t know you well enough to see what you’re getting at? That she can’t fathom why you’re acting like that? Well good news, you can save your breath from now on._

He pushes her buttons, she acts accordingly.

“Don’t, Jug. Don’t do that.”

There’s this hint of warning in her voice, one he’s quite familiar with, though it doesn’t prevent his hair from standing on end at the back of his neck. His eyes shoot up to meet hers, then she takes one last step closer.

Anger. 

“Don’t play that card with me.” She looks him dead in the eye. “You had more than a decade to speak your damn mind and you never said a word, _ever_ , so don’t you dare do that to me right now.”

He doesn’t have to ask what _that_ means.

_Take responsibility now._

“You never said anything either,” he mutters, because that’s the only response he can come up with.

(He should’ve kept his mouth shut. Nothing new.)

Another echo of silence, and her eyes widen in disbelief. 

“You can’t be serious.” The words are half-whispered, half-shouted. “Please don’t twist this around like it’s about me. You know me better than I know myself, Jug, don’t act like you didn’t know what I needed.”

He clenches his jaw at that.

_She needed_ _you_. _She needed_ _more_.

He knew, indeed. Yet he gave up.

“Every time I tried to tell you,” she proceeds, punctuating every word and ripping his heart out in the process, “you made it pretty clear that you didn’t want me like _that_. On prom night, that time at the Blue and Gold, the day Archie asked me out, hell, even before. And every time I thought, maybe this isn’t the right time Betty, patience is a virtue, maybe _later_.”

Time. It’s always a matter of time. _And timing’s a snarky bitch._

He desperately wishes he could chase that defeated look off her face. He wants to reach for her, hold her tight and tell her that he tried, he tried to find when the _right time_ is too but he learned that there’s no such thing as a right time when it comes to place your trust in the universe’s wicked hands and he’s sorry, sorry, _sorry_.

There are staples all over his lips and he can’t make a sound.

Her voice cracks.

 “But it’s been too long since later never came.”

Ironic. Isn’t it? That years after years he made a point of never, _never_ crossing that stupid love line with her lest one day he would hurt her, yet he hurt her because she’s got it in her head that he didn’t want her.

There are tears in the corner of her eyes when she speaks again.

( _You made her cry. Twice now.)_  

“You’re my best friend, Jug. You’ve always been and you’ll always be and I’m so, so thankful to have you, I hope you never doubt that.” Her eyes are questioning his. He closes them tight.  _My life’s a walking doubt_. “But I guess I have some straightening up to do with myself. Move on. I don’t know how to handle it either but I _have_ to.”

She sniffles and clears her throat. Then, with disarming confidence, she delivers the final blow. “So yeah, I’m moving to New York in two months.”

_Now what?_

_Now step on your own heart. Again, and again. Picture her in a big city wearing new clothes and hanging out with new friends. Good people and bright futures. Break your bones. Rip off your skin. Imagine new hands lucky enough to touch her and lips reckless enough to love her and see how easy it will be for her to forget about you. You’re fucking everything up. Smack your head on the concrete. Knock yourself unconscious. Maybe you’ll wake up with a severe concussion and you’ll skip the part where you hurt her._

He _hurt_ her. _He_ hurt her.

She’s leaving and he watches her go.

She walks away to the dinner’s door, and in a last desperate, useless attempt to save what’s left, Jughead’s mouth flies open.

“Wait! Betty, wait. That’s not— “

She turns around and cuts him off by practically yelling at his face. “What, Jug? You finally got something to say? Go ahead.”

_That’s not what you think_. That’s what he was going to say before her teary eyes once again find their way to his soul, before she puts the ball in his court one last time by whispering,

“Look at me, and tell me you want more.”

He could. He could tell her right now and then. He could kiss away her tears and show her how much he wants this, to such a point that he waited eleven fucking years in order to find a proper way to be with her. But he’s done being selfish, he’s done holding her back. Y _ou wanted her to be happier? Stop tearing her down. If you truly loved an angel, you wouldn’t clip her wings. Let her go._ He doesn’t want to hurt her anymore. He’s done enough. 

He’s done pretending he can rewrite the stars. No one can.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers back.

Her breath catches. She blinks and looks away. With the back of her hand, she wipes a tear rolling down her cheek, and his world stops turning when she says, “Me too.”

Seconds later, she’s gone.

 

Every avalanche inevitably begins with a snowflake. Now that he’s standing there, suffocating under tons and tons of thick white matter, Jughead wonders what tiny and insignificant ice grain triggered it all.

Maybe it was that little crown he drew on her desk in third grade.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

That’s what was in the cards – him, on an early summer night, watching as his love disappears into a world he once wished he would enter someday. A world where angels can fly higher. A world he would never pretend being a part of, because just like that poor guy Icarus, his wings melted before he could get the chance to reach the sun.

If he looks down, he can see ashes scattered all around his feet, and fresh blood on his shirt as she breaks his heart in two. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, eyes closed, limbs numb, mind wrecked, taking in the song playing in the background.

 

_You know I want you_

_It’s not a secret I try to hide_

_But I can’t have you_

_We’re bound to break_

_And my hands are tied_

 

…

 

He wanted to know what happens to a heart that lost its home.

Now he knows: it dies.

 

It’s summer break. Archie is back in Riverdale; he fills Jughead in with Chicago’s lifestyle, the songs he wrote, the girls he met – and tells him that none of them compare to Veronica and that he misses Veronica. He also says he missed him and Betty a lot. Not long after Veronica is back too, raven hair and pearl necklace intact, side-eying habit that Jughead thinks is still strong until she spends a night at the Pembroke with Betty, then she stops.

The core four is back for two months. ( _Two months_ ). Everything is fine.

Archie and Veronica swap saliva again before Jughead even has time to process that they’re getting back together. They say that love’s all about giving in what you really want, and there’s no time for hate especially during summer. 

(As if love’s opposite was _hate_.)

Days pass. Jughead works well, spends time with his father, laughs often. He eats his body weight in fantastic burgers then go running with Archie in order to get them out of his system. He sits in his regular booth and writes about a boy who knows how to deal with life on overload. Sun is shining and so is he. Everything is fine. He smiles so much that soon people will start to believe that it’s genuine – proof that his acting’s on point.

Nobody’s asking him any questions.

Then it gets dark and night falls. He’s alone in front of the half broken mirror of the trailer’s bathroom, he takes in his twisted reflection and wonders;  

_Aren’t you tired to try to fill that void?_

_Aren’t you tired to try to ignore the fact that you barely talk to your best friend anymore because the last conversation you had ended up with your heart flattened on a stained floor? How long will you keep doing this to yourself? When will you admit that she’s stuck in your head? She’s leaving, you’re running out of time for good and you’re wiling to let it go to waste because your two brain cells are unable to connect and make you realize that you can’t just escape all of this. You can’t. What did you expect? That you could shut it all down as thought she doesn’t walk around your mind like she knows the place?_

_Nice try._  

_What the hell did you do, Jones?_

He misses her so much.

He misses her at night, when he’s tossing and turning in his bed, pulling all-nighter after all-nighter and staring at the ceiling in hopes to find answers. The questions? He doesn’t even remember them anymore. If only she could part his sheets and lick his wounds.

He looks at the moon, and recalls this story – the one saying that the sun loves the moon to such a point that he dies every evening to let her breathe. 

How poetic.

He misses her when he jolts awake after another unfair dream in which she loves him back. Drowsy, he reaches for his phone and narrows his eyes at the screen. The screen that’s void of any texts coming from her because hey, if he doesn’t make any effort, she won’t do it either.

He misses her in the shower, one hand flat on the wall and his eyes snapped shut while he jerks off under the icy water because there’s too much pressure and not enough of her and he’s desperate to _feel_ her by all means.

He misses her and she isn’t even gone yet.

More than anything, he misses her when she’s sitting in front of him at Pop’s, making fun of Archie about the fact that he only drinks beer now and laughing with Veronica while telling her they’re _so_ going to be roommates in New York. He misses her when she’s close, so close he can smell softener and lavender, so close he can touch her, yet it feels like she’s already miles away. There’s this emptiness that tears him apart, it’s always there. 

_Watch, Jones. Watch her being free and beautiful and perfectly not yours._

There’s a shift in her delicate features every time their eyes meet and a quiver in her voice when she has to ask him something in front of their friends. They don’t notice, but he does. It hurts. With each tiny contact, he feels the weight of what was left hanging between them and this is just one of the many reminders that he somehow managed to ruin not only the possibility to have _more_ , but also what he already had – their friendship.

_Jackpot_.

_Where do you go from this?_

If loving Betty Cooper has taught Jughead anything, it is that love’s unescapable opposite isn’t hate.

It’s pain.

 

…

 

She’s leaving in ten days.

He wants to text her, “ _I miss you_ ”.

It’s dark outside. Sunnyside sounds strangely quiet as Jughead sinks further into the trailer’s couch, phone in hand, mind tired but still racing. He can’t sleep.

His fingers are itching, hesitating, hovering over his phone screen.

_I… miss… you_.

He types the words then erases them. Type, erase, type, erase. This is stupid. She’s leaving, whether he wants it or not. Whether he _misses_ her or not. She doesn’t need an update on his state of mind.

But what if…

_I… miss… us_.

Again, he types then deletes every letter. He sighs and nonchalantly drops his phone next to him. It’s just an uphill battle against himself at this point. Of course he misses the “ _us_ ” he used to be with her, he misses the never ending debates, he misses their laughs intertwined, he misses her unquestionable trust in him, he misses her hugs and her weird fashion advices and the way she rolls her eyes at his sarcastic comments – now, does she really care? She’s moving. She’s about to start a new life. _Step back._  

_Or cut the crap._

_Be honest. Man up. Talk to her. You’re almost nineteen for god’s sake. You solved murders with her and there you are, paralysed at the idea of sending her a text. Pull yourself together. What’s the worst thing that could happen?_  

_Screw it._

He writes, “ _I’m sorry. I miss you_.”

Sent. Delivered.

He flips over his phone so that the screen is facing the couch _._ Now he waits. Two minutes. Five. Ten. He cracks his knuckles, scratches his nose and stirs his legs. Twenty. _Tick, tick._ His heart is sore. She’s not going to reply. Twenty-five. He glances at the clock – it’s close to one am. _Of course she’s asleep, you dumbass_. Thirty. _Fine_. He gets up from the couch, one hand reaching for his beanie and throwing it away. _Enough for tonight_. But then—

There’s a knock on his door.

He furrows his brows. It can’t be his dad – he never knocks.

He waits a few seconds.

There’s another knock on his door.

To be frankly honest, he’s tempted to yell _fuck off_ because he’s definitely not in a mood to socialize with whoever decided to show up past midnight – who does that by the way? He opts for ignorance instead, and proceeds to step towards the narrow corridor leading to his bedroom.

“I know you’re here, Jug.”

_Huh?_

He goes still, then turns around in a heartbeat to face the door. _Betty?_ He may be kind of dazed right now – but he doesn’t have hallucinations. That was _her_ voice. Silence ensues, therefore he’s about to call her name – just to be sure, but she takes the wind out of his sails.

“I miss you too, you idiot.”

Relief. Wonder. Hope. He can’t pinpoint precisely what is it he’s feeling right now, but one thing’s for sure his cheeks are burning all of a sudden as he mechanically walks to the door. To hell any concertation with his inner self, he has to turn that bolt and open. See her. Talk to her. Now.

But then her voice echoes again, soft but determined and _so close_ , and he loses all ability to move.

“Listen, I miss you too. So much. I know you hear me, and I know you’re afraid but this has to stop now. We can’t keep doing this Jug, I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

He mouths _you won’t_ , even though she can’t see him.

“I _can’t_ lose you. I’m afraid too, trust me, I’ve learned the hard way that people hurt people all the time but hey, don’t you know that every relationship that doesn’t end with a breakup ends with _death_?”

One of his hands is clutched on the doorknob.

“And I wanna _live_ , Jughead. So please, stop trying to keep every goddamn door close between us.”

With a faint _crack_ , the door opens.

“Because I can’t take it anymore. I can’t." 

They’re facing each other. She tries to lock eyes with him – but _his_ eyes are _everywhere_.

He could focus on the excuse of a summer dress that’s putting her bare legs on display and tell her that it’s cold outside and she’s out of her mind to wander on the Southside with so little clothes but also she’s fucking hot so nevermind, he could focus on her face and tell her she’s beautiful just like that standing on his doorstep at one am, he could focus on her words and tell her he loves her, loves her, loves her—she bites her lip, muttering something close to _you always let me do all the talking_ , and, indeed, this has to stop now.

No more talking. No more boundaries.

No more battle scars. No more wasted time.

His lips crash on hers.

 

…

 

 

There is no coherency.

Jughead tries to think of eloquent words in an attempt to describe a kiss that can somehow sum up god knows how many years of _waiting_. He tries and fails. This is the ultimate second of the time bomb, the last drop before it overflows, the unstoppable meeting of fire and gasoline. Fresh air. Cloud nine. Information overload. This is officially and irrevocably written in the stars; Betty Cooper is going to be the death of him. _And what a way to go._

He means for it to be short – not _short_ short, only short enough so he can test the waters, see if they’re both on the same wavelength. But she kisses him back with such fervor, such want, such _need_ that he just slams the trailer’s door close with one foot and takes the decision to dive head first into her and fuck if he ends up with hypothermia.

These are supposed to be foreign sensations – the warmth of her tongue as she slides it into his mouth to chase his, the sharp edge of her teeth teasing his bottom lip, the dance of her fingers tangled in his messy hair – yet it feels like she’s been there before. Perhaps not in the way she is right now, wrinkling both his shirt and his sanity, but she’s already touched him in so many other ways that it just feels logical. Right. 

_This_ , Jughead realizes,  _this is home_.

What the fuck is he doing, he doesn’t have a single clue. He would’ve been self-conscious, too careful, worried to do something wrong if only he hadn’t lost his fucking mind already. _She kissed you back, this is enough_. Except that it’s not. This is too much and not enough and he can’t stop, he won’t stop because time’s not going to trick them tonight, he will not let her down, he will build her wings and point her to the sky. Tonight, he will hold his middle finger up to the universe and she will teach them both how to fly.

 

The kiss turns into a perfect storm and his brain turns into a complete mash. He’s gone. This is the only reason he can come up with to explain how he somehow manages to lift her up and carry her across the room until she’s settled on the kitchen counter, her sinfully hot legs wrapped tightly around his waist as thought she’s afraid he would run away again.

( _Never. Never again._ )

He feels a delicious shiver run down his spine when she binds her hands all over him, begging him to come closer, _closer_ , like she wants to mould their lonely bodies into one, and it feels so surreal for him to touch her like _that_ , to venture on her lips and her neck and all that flesh he never reached before that he’s a little out of it and almost jumps when she gasps, “About time”.

He pulls back just enough to look at her.

His heart melts – no, it burns. It explodes.

Her face is ethereal, swollen lips slightly parted and green irises turned three shades darker with need. Desire. _Lust_. If he thought she was beautiful before, well, there he goes. She’s unreal, this is unreal. There’s no way this is happening, there’s no way he’s such a lucky bastard—

This time _she_ kisses him first, hot and demanding and _so real_ , and he can do little but shut down his brain again and groan against her mouth, “Gonna make it up to you, promise.”

 

His shirt is now nothing but a vague memory and it doesn’t take long before her dexterous hands start wandering across his chest, every now and then sliding up his neck then back down to his stomach. Sure thing, Jughead doesn’t have an Archie Andrews’ six pack and honestly he couldn’t care less. He wants to scream with pride, he wants to turn back time and say to his fifteen-year-old self, _look, weirdo kiddo, look who she’s with now, and think of how much time you wasted being such a coward—_

He wants to bookmark each sound that leaves her perfect mouth lest he would forget them, he wants to learn by heart every inch of her sacred skin and find out what he can do to make her fall apart. He wants so many things.

Guess he just has to experiment.

Tentatively, he draws a line of open-mouthed kisses down her throat to her collarbone, taking his time to detail each flick of his tongue against her warm skin. _Warm and soft_. The muffled moans she lets out reverberate through him with such intensity that it makes his cock twitch, and he does a mental note to repeat the action as soon as possible.

_Breathe, Jones, one step at a time. She needs you in one piece._

He has to fight the sudden urge to rip off her dress as he eagerly slides his hands up her bare tights, because no matter how much he wants this, no matter how much he needs to finally see _all of her_ , it has to be with her entire willpower. Too bad if he spontaneously combusts from that discomforting sensation in his boxer in the meantime. _Keep composure. Maintain control._

_Control_. _Yeah, right_.

And what if her hands suddenly travel south on his body to start fidgeting with the hem of his sweatpants and –  _fucking hell_ – what if this is the exact moment she chooses to tighten her grip around his waist and ground herself straight against his throbbing erection?

_Fucking hell_.

It wasn’t supposed to go that far.

She stops moving for a second, so is he, and her breath catches. He’s already painfully hard and – obviously – she can feel it. Him. _All of him._ Truthfully, he expects her to shy away, push him back a little, maybe realize that this is too much, anything but what she ultimately does: pressing further.

_Good god, Betty._

Who said control? He’s a goner.

 

“What do you want me to do, Betts?” he mutters hoarsely while kissing along her jawline, up to her earlobe so he can nip at it. She loves that too, it appears, according to the speed at which her hands fly from his pants to his hair (he thinks she loves his hair, too).

(And he loves her.)

“Take off my dress, Jug,” she answers in a hurry, then adds in a long, deep sigh, “I’ve wanted you to do this for so long.”

Now that she gave him the go-ahead, he happily indulges her and starts to peal that cute flowery dress off her. She wiggles on the counter to help him out – how is this so easy, so natural? Her moves and her words have his whole body buzzing. “How long? How long have you been waiting for _this_?”

“Forever,” she offers breathily, and he can’t help but grin as her dress lands somewhere in the blurry space around them. _Forever,_ _forever, forever_ —

_Oh my oh my oh my._

His gaze finds its way to her body.

Thin, light pink lace.

Pure skin waiting to be tasted.

Worshiped.

Jughead had numerous occasions to admire Betty in bathing suits over the past few years, sure, but _this_ – this is something else. Entirely. To his eyes, this is artwork. Heaven. _Trust_. This is what he wants to discover again and again. This is what feeds a hungry heart searching for the purest love that it can have.

What follows is happening in slow motion yet still too fast for him to correctly process it.

She looks away and tears her hands off him to reach behind her back. Her voice is low and a bit raspy. “Give me tonight, Jug. I want you to make me forget.” With a _click_ , her bra snaps open and falls into her lap. “I want to forget that I’m leaving.” She glances up at him. “I want to forget everything.”

_I’m leaving. I’m leaving._

_Make me forget_.

There are sparkles in his brain, fire in his pants and an endless need to hold her in his heart. _She’s fabulous_ , he thinks as he cups her face with both hands and takes her mouth in a slow, meaningful kiss. She’s clinging to him, to what he’s giving to her, grinding her bare breasts against his chest, making him groan in agreement. _Fabulous._

“It should’ve been you.” Her whisper tumbles on his hungry lips, and he presses his forehead against hers. A silent question.  

“The first who gets to see me like… this. It should’ve been you.” 

Naked. Vulnerable. Real. _Like this._

She gets his heart racing with her words. 

But he can’t think about the past right now, he can’t think about prom night or the things he did not say, he can’t waste precious time pouring salt in old cuts. He doesn’t want to look back.

(He doesn’t want to look ahead either. 

She’s leaving.) 

He’s going to live _now_.

One hand cupping her neck, thumb sliding ever so slightly up her throat, he presses a kiss at the intersection of her jaw and her ear. “It doesn’t matter now, angel." 

She whines under his touch. “It—it does. It does matter to me. It was foolish, messing with someone else because I thought you didn’t want me.”

_S’okay. I was the foolish one._

Soon he’s devouring her neck again, her chanting voice building him up until he meets the unavoidable need to bite at her collarbone. _Boom_. Her head falls back into the kitchen cabinet. “Jug, m—make me forget, until there’s only you. Make me forget my name by moaning yours, just like that, and— _oh, my god_.”

His mouth firmly closed around one of her nipples has her gasp and she abruptly stops rambling profanities that make him want to ruin the front of his pants. _There you go_. Quite obviously he doesn’t have any mastered skills, but if the way she violently arches her back to meet his touch is any indication, well, maybe he’s not that bad. He even thinks for a second that she’s about to fall off the counter. (He won’t let that happen, though.) 

Jughead decides that he loves Betty’s tits. He loves everything about her – but the desperate sounds she makes while he’s sucking on her left breast and palming the right one for equal attention are mind blowing. Every now and then, he lifts his gaze to see her face and can’t help but mutter sweet nothings such as _you’re beautiful._  

Damn right she is. He can’t get enough of her; he always needs more.

Soon, he starts to go down.

“ _Jesus_ , where and when did you learn to do that?” she breathes in between shaky pants, tugging at his hair while he trails down featherlike kisses across her stomach, leaving goosebumps on her heated skin.

He can’t suppress the grin playing on his lips. “It’s you, baby. I know you.”    

If he was pretentious, he would say that over and over again. He knows what she needs, he knows what she craves. He would call her _baby_ once more while his mouth would approach the hem of her panties, because he knows that’s what she wants, because he knows her.

(Maybe he’s a pretentious little shit after all.)

But who cares in this world. Who cares, as long as she plays along, desperately bucking her hips and moaning,

“God, yes, you know me so well Juggie.”

If he thought he wasn’t ruled by raging hormones like a preteen anymore, here is the reminder. The way _Juggie_ rolls on her tongue makes him ache with want _everywhere_ , and in a blink of an eye he straightens up and takes her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing her whimper as his fingers naturally find themselves wandering over the lace of her panties. She deepens the kiss – he takes it as a hint, and without any trace of a second thought, he slowly slips his hand underneath the fabric. _Holy—_

She’s wet.

He knows what that means. She needs this as much as he does. _This is too good to be true, this feels too good to be true_. Her fingers grasping the hair at the back of his neck. Her whole trembling body flush against his. Her high-pitched moan as he starts to move his fingers back and forth between her folds, gathering wetness all the way up to where she’s the most sensible. Higher. Further. _There_.

She cries out when he begins to play with her clit.

_Jesus Christ._ “Did you ever touch yourself thinking about me, Betts?” The words leave his mouth in a deep growl as he sucks on her bottom lip.

She nods. Without an ounce of hesitation. “Y—yes. But your fingers feel so, so much better than mine does.” A gasp. Then, “Don’t stop.”

Oh, he sure as hell won’t. He’s on freewheel now. He moves faster between her legs, her body shakes. Real. Real. _She’s real_. No, he won’t stop. He will give here more, more than what he thought he was able to give.

He slides one finger inside her. She’s warm and tight, _so_ tight and the thought of her muscles potentially clenching around his cock later sends him up in flames. How did he managed to keep it together so far? Maybe he doesn’t have any male attributes anymore. Maybe it’s dead. _Fuck_. She’s tight.  And she responds so well. This is _all_ about the feedback. She says _more_ , he adds another finger. She says _I’m good_ , he starts to move. In, out, in, out.

On a scale of one to unrecoverable, he wonders how fucked he is, falling even more in love with his best friend while being three knuckles deep inside her.

He loses track of time and space. He thrusts and twirls and curls, feeding in her _ohmygod, yes Jug, fuck_ (he never, _ever_ heard her say _fuck_ before) and attacking her lips because he’s an addict and she’s the cure and the addiction and maybe his shitty character development leads to this exact moment, maybe he lives for this, for her unravelling on his fingers – maybe his life is her. She keeps playing his heartstrings, faster and faster, turning him into a wonderful disaster, making him wonder what she tastes like. Maybe she tastes like the sun, the moon and the stars, like she did in his dreams, perhaps if he had enough confidence to replace his fingers with his tongue he would find out, she would let him burry his head between her thighs then he would drown in her and that’s fine, that’s totally fine because—

“Jug—god, wait, wait, wait.”

He snaps back to reality when he realizes she’s pushing him back. He throws both his hands off her and immediately starts to panic. “What? Did I do something wrong? You don’t like it? Fuck, Betty, I’m sorry, I— “

“No, no, no,” she cuts him off, lifting her trembling hands on his cheeks and stroking lightly with her thumbs. “This is… you’re perfect. Trust me, everything is perfect.”

He sighs in relief.

She offers him the most reassuring smile before leaning in to kiss his lips softly. _Those butterflies are tireless_. “It’s just—I think I’m going to… I want more. I _need_ more.”

She quickly glances towards the corridor and he takes the hint – bed. He doesn’t ask what _more_ means. Action, reaction. He guides her arms around his neck, slips his hands under her thighs, and before he carries her to the bedroom, he looks into her eyes, steals another kiss or two, and simply says, “Okay.”

 

Some discarded panties and a quick search for a condom later, Betty is kneeling on Jughead’s bed, watching carefully as he takes his sweatpants and boxers off, and when he springs free, she bites her lip. There is no shame. No doubt. She wanted to see him, there he is. He joins her on the bed and they keep trading kisses and touches, every boundary between them knocked down, until her hands start to wander dangerously on his lower abdomen. He stops her. She frowns, he notices, but if he’s going to stand a chance of giving her the _whole_ thing tonight, he has to make some sacrifices. He tells her _next time_.

(When will be the next time, who knows.) 

She’s eying him almost curiously when he lies on his back and glances towards his lap. “Come here,” he says softly.

_How strange to dream of you even when I’m wide awake,_ Jughead thinks as she crawls shyly towards him. She’s blushing, unsure of what she’s supposed to do, and he decides that this is the most precious thing he’s ever seen. He’s unsure, too, he doesn’t know if he’s doing it right, however he’s _so sure_ of what he wants right now. _You trust me?_ His eyes are questioning hers. She nods.

He reaches for the condom, unwraps it carefully and rolls it on him. By the time he’s done, there’s a naked angel settled on top of him. He wants her that way, so she’s the one who sets the pace, the one who leads the dance (maybe Jughead _does_ dance, after all). This is all for her tonight. 

“Take what you want,” Jughead breathes in the quiet of the night.

Betty smiles, lowering a hand on his chest. “I want you.”

“Then take me.” He lets his fingers caress her thighs, and, because he terribly needs her to know that _now_ , he adds, “I’m yours.”

Green eyes dive into blue, and she joins one of her hands with his, lacing their fingers together. With the other, she guides him into her entrance. She seems sure, too. “Mine,” she whispers.

When the tip of his rock hard length brushes her, they both shudder. _Yours, yours, yours_ , the word resonates in his head like a mantra. She winces as she sinks down, slowly, and he rubs the back of her hand with his thumb. They’re not in a rush. _Mine, mine, mine_ , her body screams. He bites back a groan, momentarily closing his eyes when she takes him practically all the way in, and wonders if it feels as good for her as it feels for him. That’s all he’s hoping for.

His eyes only reopen when she calls his name. 

Jughead would say that he never really witnessed true love. Not in his family sphere – that goes without saying, not in the Cooper’s either. Not even in the Andrew’s. He grew up with this idea that love is always eat-in and never take-out – so why bother finding a truth that couldn’t last? He watched some of his friends as they were falling in love, sure, but it always seemed like there was a missing element. He never found out what it was. He fell in love himself, after all, and never could explain what it _really_ looks like.

But here in this old bed, he may have found brand new answers. There is so much softness, so much sincerity, so much trust in Betty’s eyes as she’s looking down at him – he just knows. He knows that this is a bond that will never fade to black even if they forget everything. He knows that the past eleven years weren’t for nothing. He knows that they will do better, as long as they are together. He knows that they can heal each other, and that _this_ could be true love.

“Good?” he asks. “Good,” she confirms. 

She starts to move, and it doesn’t take long after that. Needy whimpers and low groans fill the quiet of the room as she’s rising and falling with her hands gripped in his, riding him as thought they’ve done this before, and with what’s left of his sanity, all Jughead can think of is how they fit together. Perfectly. Irrevocably. In every aspect of the word.

She rocks her hips faster, gasping his name, chasing her release, until an overwhelming rush runs through his body. Suddenly there’s no clipped wings anymore, and they can break the cage. There’s no melted wings anymore, and they can reach the sun. Suddenly they’re together, and they fly.

He’s pretty sure he hears _I love you_ when she comes all around him.

 

 

...

 

 

“Isn’t it supposed to be… weird? Awkward? _Bad_?” Betty wonders as she snuggles closer to Jughead’s side, wearing nothing but rumpled sheets and a soft, sated smile. “The first kiss, the first time, the first pillowtalk.”

Jughead chuckles and presses his lips to her forehead. He wants to reply something like _is this your way of saying it was good?_ or _guess it doesn’t apply to us_ but, truthfully, he can’t seem to find a way to put down in words what happened tonight. He’s still somewhere between heaven and earth, his mind floating at a height that doesn’t exist, his body relaxing as she traces loops on his chest, just like she did on her notebook in third grade.

This must be the benefit of falling in love with his best friend, his greatest ally, someone whose past shares so many echoes with his own. Or this must be just them – a latent resource waiting to be revealed, a story meant to be co-written, two pieces of the same broken heart.  

_No,_ he thinks,  _it definitely couldn’t have been bad_.

“This is us,” he eventually tells her, in answer to her previous question. “We sort of just… fit together.”

She hums – _she agrees_ – and tilts her head up to kiss his jaw.

(He would _never_ tire of her kisses.) 

There’s a silence. A comfortable one, during which Jughead tries to etch every details of the scene on his memory. He wants to memorize this exact moment, from the taste of her skin still lingering on his lips to the warmth of her body against his own. He wants to remember.

In ten days, she’ll be gone. He hasn’t forgot.

As thought she’s reading his mind, what breaks the silence is a barely audible confession, muffled in the crook of his neck where her face is now buried.

“I don’t want to leave anymore, Juggie. 

_That makes two of us_ , he wants to say, along with _I’m sorry_. Because they could’ve done this when they were sixteen, because he could’ve man up and talk to her sooner, because there’s always this bad timing, because now she has to leave. But she doesn’t want him to be sorry anymore, he can tell, so he loosely runs his fingers through her blonde waves and says instead, “Don’t say that. Of course you want. You’re going to New York, and you’re going to be great.”

She releases a long sigh. “If you say so. But what are _we_ going to—“

“— _we_ will make it work.”

He emphasizes the _we_ just like she did, and when she lifts her head up a little to look at him, he adds, “Together.”

_You and me._

_We’ll make it work._

Is he still afraid of messing things up? Yes. But that’s okay. He learned something about fear. He now understands that fear isn’t always the bad guy, it can be good – it means that you still have something to lose. He still has her, near or far, and from now on nothing can convince him otherwise – as long as they have each other, they will both be fine.

They will make it work. _How?_ _Well, come what may_. There will be the moment she’d leave, the goodbyes and the worries. Missing home. Distance and emptiness. Then there will be the moment she’d come back, the joy, the tenderness, and more. Because that’s what they both want – more. And so on, and so forth. It could work.

Or it could not. The future is scary. Distance is scary. Being homeless is scary.

( _Fear can be good_.)

He could leave. He could just leave. He could get out of here too and, paradoxically, never leave home. Stay with her. Nobody said it would be an easy road – it brings back a thousand of unanswered questions about his own life, his _mess_ , himself. But he could. He could… he can. This is a possibility. If she wants him too, he would do that for her. _Try_. Come to think of it, is there even a single thing that he _wouldn’t_ do for her now? Hell, he even killed someone for her tonight.

He murdered the version of himself that was afraid to _try_.

_Take your shot, Jones._

_Your bullshit ended the moment you put your lips on hers._

He thinks he hears a muttered _screw it_. When he gets out of his own thoughts, he realizes that Betty’s sitting up on the bed, facing him, the sheets bunched around her waist. _She’s so beautiful_. How could he let her go? He can’t.

Their eyes meet. It seems like she’s searching for something in his gaze, and he has to hold back his grin. _Fuck it. We can do this_. _Let’s rewrite the stars._

They stare at each other, dancing sparkles in their eyes, and any trace of hesitation is long gone when their mouths open at the same time, their voices intertwined just like their paths when they say,

“Come with me.”

“I’m coming with you.”

 

Later, Jughead Jones writes the final sentence to a story he initially didn’t want to end. He knows better, now – he learned that beginnings always hide themselves in ends. He knows that life isn’t one enormous book with a single neat conclusion but a succession of tomes with plots and endings and, as long as _she_ remains a recurrent character, he’s willing to write _more, more, more_. Together they will write more ends, and just as much beginnings.

 

Loving Betty Cooper taught him that if there are no up and downs in life, it means that you flatlined. And that is why he knows the part of him that’s her will never die – because she’s the roller coaster, and he’s living for this ride.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay.
> 
> I'm emotional now. 
> 
> To anyone who gave a chance to my nonsense, THANK YOU. And please please please leave a comment. Tell me if it’s bad. Or good. Or in between. Wanna hear your thoughts. Feed baaaack. 
> 
> This Jughead clearly was inspired by my own experience with feelings and bad timing. Sometimes you just need to stop overthinking and just try, but, hey, it might take a while. 
> 
> Oh and that was my first smut ever. There wasn't much, but still. Yay to a first time involving a kitchen counter.
> 
> I think there's a part of me that wants to write a follow up in Betty's POV. So maybe. One day. 
> 
> ++ ghost me also spies on Tumblr for more than a year now and very much enjoys her daily bh/sh food. When I started to write this fic, I finally decided to create a proper blog. So I guess I exist now. -> itslightningbugs !
> 
> Feel free to message me. <3
> 
> x Lo


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